


Fragments

by SkyEventide



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elf/Human Relationship(s), Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hope vs. Despair, M/M, Multi, Post-War of Wrath, Tirion, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 22:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19343812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEventide/pseuds/SkyEventide
Summary: Series of short drabbles written for the Solstice Instadrabble Challenge 2019, featuring various povs, various characters. Family ties, loss and passing and the finding of hope regardless of it.





	Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Finwë goes into exile  
> 2\. Finarfin (Arafinwë) and the first rising of the sun  
> 3\. Fingolfin (Ñolofinwë) and Maedhros send each other messages  
> 4\. Círdan towards the end of the War of Wrath  
> 5\. an elf and his old human love

**1\. Unkinged**

Finwë left his court and met his firstborn son on the steps of his house in Tirion. He came uncrowned, holding no sceptre, bearing no mantle.

Servants and loyal friends of Fëanáro moved about, undoing the dwelling’s soul piece by piece, as things were chosen to be carried away north, to Formenos.

« So you come with us », Fëanáro said, and Finwë was pained to find the faintest note of surprise in his voice, buried amongst a vindicated satisfaction.

And he gazed upon his son’s face, upon little wrinkles that should not have been there (it had once been believed impossible that a Quendë should visibly age: this belief had long been proven wrong); he thought how Fëanáro, for all his mastery of words, had hardly attempted to defend himself from the sentence, and greatly wondered at his reasons. It was a bitter realisation that he no longer truly knew him.

Always divided, always split in halves that nonetheless were both of his spirit, Finwë bowed his head. « So I come with thee. »

Of the two, he thought or hoped, Ñolofinwë would more easily understand.

 

**2\. The first morning of Arda**

The architects of the Ñoldor and the Vanyar, when the word for architect first came to be, had devised the throne room of Tirion’s palace so that its far end would look towards the Ezellohar. Great emptiness had been carved out of the wall behind the thrones: large arched windows, a mighty framework for a wonder of glass and light.

Arafinwë recalled the thronging hall, and the colours of the stained windows bursting to life in a haze of gold, the luminous story of Cuiviénen and the records of their folks’ awakening. But it had come to pass that Arafinwë should only sit on his father’s chair, a painful honour unsought and unexpected, with a heavy heart, and look upon emptied rooms and a long darkness that the stars could only partly pierce.

Yet, as all things, even the darkness came to an end.

Thus Arafinwë walked into the halls of his rulership even as the Sun raced through the sky in the first morning of Arda and halted far from the throne, for the great wall shone anew, its colours painted on the floors with unparalleled clarity.

So he sat on the marble, as if child again, and marvelled at it with an aching smile.

 

**3\. East and West**

Ñolofinwë, who was now oft called Fingolfin by his own people, sipped his wine with the right hand and held up the message with his left.

His nephew’s newfound handwriting was, he thought, indistinguishable from how it had once been. That, one could say (for he was not at all hard-hearted), gladdened him.

He called no scribe, penning the answer himself.

Nelyafinwë, whom no one called that anymore at his own request, set down his cup of red before he could pick up the message with the very same hand.

He would ride with his uncle into battle; thus they would descend upon the hosts of Morgoth from the East and the West both, and may the Enemy’s spawn not see another day. So he smiled thinly and drank again.

 

**4\. Slow end**

The great bird flew against a sallow sky, full of dust, full of clouds heavy with sulphur, approaching Balar. It landed upon the port’s piers, its head heavy, its feathers dirty.

_Land is no more. The northern pits spew and heave the evils of the dark caves, a great slide of mud slowly crawls down from Anfauglith and swallows the mountain passes, the forests and plains. It shall reach the sea, or the sea shall swallow it._

Círdan gazed north, where the shadows were thicker, and let go of a deep sigh as the fish hawk fell silent. He turned to his lieutenant, the iridescent armour glowing sickly under the pale glare of the hidden sun.

« The harbour stays open. If no more ships reach us by overmorrow, we shall consider visiting the coast of Lindon. » Then he paused and, more gently, he added: « This too shall pass. »

 

**5\. Will you still love me**

Beinor was old, old in the way all men eventually become, his face wrinkled as scrunched up parchment, his back slightly bent, his limbs thin and frail.

He had been fair, once, youthful and strong, bright and swift of foot. Celúmë had loved him then and, for the memory of the Eldar is as stark as the profile of mountains in a bright afternoon, yet recalled how Beinor had wondered if he would still be loved once the cruel years had altered him.

They had travelled all day and now rested under the midnight sky. A long day for an aged man.

Celúmë had carried him as one would a child, had sat him upon the horse, had helped him eat, had made his pallet with four blankets of wool so that no twig or stone could disturb his sleep.

He asked, « Art thou cold? ».

Beinor shook his head, so Celúmë smiled and gazed at the stars.


End file.
